


Bricoleur

by innie



Series: Elastic Heart [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-31
Updated: 2011-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-15 06:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A loose retelling of "The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton" in which Harry, newly separated and struggling to get sober, is the one who's being blackmailed for a drunken hit-and-run. John needs Sherlock to solve the case, but not if he's going to prove Harry's guilty. Set a few months after "The Great Game," while the boys are still recovering. ("Bricoleur" means "one who uses all that he has to do what he has to do.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bricoleur

**Author's Note:**

> First piece of art by y0do. Second piece of art by ptelefolone. Fic and art created for sherlockbigbang.

Even during the lull that followed being battered by a madman with equal fondness for explosives and henchmen, a quiet morning was a rare treat, and John was blissfully aware that he could hardly improve upon this one. The teapot was full, and he had managed to scrounge up the only mug that looked free of all contaminants. The new toaster, still undefiled by any of Sherlock's mad experiments, had produced perfectly browned slices that were now thickly spread with butter and raspberry jam.

Feeling ashamedly like a nanny with a sickly charge, John had checked on Sherlock, only to find that his flatmate was sleeping the sleep of the thoroughly worn-out and snoring up a storm, as if protesting such a plebeian end to his most recent mad adventures. John knew quite well that anyone still recovering from double pneumonia who nevertheless insisted on hiding out of doors in the freezing rain on the off-chance of catching a counterfeiter got all the wretchedness he deserved, but he hadn't expected Sherlock's snores to be _quite_ so emphatic.

Still, with the door to Sherlock's bedroom firmly closed, he could almost imagine himself blessedly alone. He booted up his laptop to read his emails while he had his tea and toast. There was nothing much of interest in his inbox, aside from an invitation to join Stamford at a lecture and an email from Vee, asking to postpone their Friday lunch but offering him the chance, if he was still so masochistically inclined, to join her in her studio to watch her work.

The Sunday paper was, wonder of wonders, dry and still firmly creased, and he shook it open contentedly to tackle the crossword and Sudoku puzzles, switching whenever he got stuck. He nibbled the last of his toast crusts and drank his cooling tea, pondered 27 down, and asked himself if the sofa could possibly be quite as comfortable a bed as Sherlock made it look when he was sprawled on it like a corpse after rigor mortis had come and gone.

It was, and John, worn out from worrying over Sherlock's much abused immune system, collapsed on it with a happy sigh and fell right asleep.

He woke in no very cheerful mood. That was pretty much a given, since Sherlock had done the waking by holding a cold mug to his bare foot and repeating his name in what promised to be a ceaseless litany. "John," he croaked, injured expression not lightening even when he saw that his tactics had worked, "I require tea."

John sat up, rubbed his face, and checked the clock. "Christ, Sherlock, I was only asleep for seven minutes!" He looked over at Sherlock, who didn't even seem to be aware that he was mimicking John's actions the way a child would his parent's, rubbing at his sleepy eyes with a loose fist. "Are you feeling any better?"

Sherlock scowled at the question, evidently resenting the implication that there were times when he was _not_ in the best of health. He didn't deign to answer, either, simply repeated his demand for tea. Mycroft had been right, John reflected. Living with Sherlock could be hellish, never more so than when he was under the weather, because it was then that he reverted back to the mindset and mannerisms of childhood, kicking John's already ridiculously strong urge to protect into high gear. Sherlock when hale and hearty was no prize, and even though his behaviour changed in only the most superficial of ways as his health declined, when he was sick and overtaxed John's susceptible mind cast him as an innocent, off-limits for retaliation in a way John couldn't explain even to himself, not when he bloody well knew better.

He supposed there was nothing for it, now that he was awake, but to make a fresh pot of tea, sterilise another mug – better yet, perhaps simply wash up his own and offer it – and push liquids on Sherlock, whose eyes were already closing again. Sherlock had flatly refused, several times now but always with great vehemence, to take any proper medication, claiming that he could not bear a cloudy mind. John sighed and got off the sofa, and his flatmate, apparently free from even a vestigial sense of shame, crawled into the warm spot his body had left and manoeuvred himself into a position that ensured he took up the entire sofa while still managing to look impossibly small. He'd definitely lost weight that he couldn't afford to lose. John hadn't got more than a few steps away when he saw Sherlock's eyebrows rise over still-shut eyes. "What?" he enquired. "We're not out of milk or sugar –"

He stopped when he heard what Sherlock must have picked up on, the drumming of feet on their staircase, someone upset, stumbling, lost – surely a client. Sherlock was in no shape to help anybody now, though, and John opened the door, ready to head off whoever was standing there by offering an appointment for later in the week. But it was Harry, mascara streaked down her face, who stood on the doorstep and said quietly, "Please, I need your help, Jay."

*

For all that they'd never got on, John was as powerless to deny Harry when she needed him as he was Sherlock. His arms came up around her in an unfamiliar but earnest embrace, and she choked out a sob into his thin cotton shirt, her hands clutching tightly at him, bruising the ribs he'd cracked not so very long ago. "Shhh," he soothed, rocking their weight from one foot to the other, not letting go.

Harry smelt like her expensive salon shampoo and soap, but the perfume she favoured, which had always reminded John unpleasantly of a garden of dead roses, was missing. So too was any odour of alcohol, and if Harry heard or resented his cautious sniff, she masked it well. She didn't go too far when she stepped back, as if she needed to stay close. John couldn't even begin to guess what could have shaken her like this, not when she'd already lost Clara and then all of their friends by accusing them of taking Clara's side in what had been, up to that point, the intensely private dissolution of a marriage.

"Sorry," she said, rubbing at her damp eyes with the side of her hand, and John was vividly reminded of Sherlock's uncharacteristic clumsiness with the same gesture not five minutes earlier. It was entirely typical of his life, he thought, that at the first meeting of the two people he could neither chuck nor be entirely happy with, they should both be in such poor shape. Harry, panda-eyed and sniffling, was trembling in his arms, and the spell on the sofa and the hours in his own bed had between them dishevelled Sherlock's hair so that he looked like Little Lord Fauntleroy three days gone on the bender of his life.

Harry had never been heavy, at least not since she'd got back from uni, but John could feel bones too close to the surface under her jumper. Whatever else she needed from him, he'd at least see to it that she ate a proper meal. And while he was dreaming big, he might as well include a wish that Sherlock would join them and consume solid food without protest.

Her awkward ministrations to her ravaged face were unsurprisingly ineffective. "You must be Sherlock," she said. Holding her, John could just see the tremulous smile she tried out; she didn't move far enough away from him even to extend her hand to his flatmate.

"I must," Sherlock agreed noncommittally; with the rasp his illness had lent his voice, John could scarcely tell if there was an extra layer of coldness in his tone. "And you are here for _my_ help and not your brother's." He paused, making a show of considering her. God only knew what observations he was making, or what conclusions he was drawing. John tensed up, and felt his sister do the same in response. "I'm not sure that I'm inclined to give it."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, _please_ ," John hissed, though he knew that Sherlock thought he was being a good friend by peremptorily refusing Harry, who'd caused John so much grief in just the short time he and Sherlock had known each other; such actions and overtures, laden with meaning, had become important to Sherlock in the aftermath of their midnight encounter with Moriarty at the public pool. Trust Sherlock, tone-deaf as ever with respect to the complexities of familial obligations and fraternal love, to make such a stand just as Harry relinquished her destructive pride. John kept an arm around his sister's shoulders and met Sherlock's carefully blank gaze; he shook his head slightly, just enough for Sherlock to pick up on, and saw the slightest smile flicker on his flatmate's lips. He knew very well how satisfied Sherlock was by his plea, since he had been chomping at the bit for a case ever since he'd worked out how the counterfeiting had been accomplished; for Sherlock, actually catching the criminal was, despite its moments of excitement, still only part of the dénouement.

He knew that Sherlock would solve this new case. He knew, too, that once the case was over, Harry would most likely go back to being nothing more than a distant, infuriating voice on the telephone and a constant pressure on his heart, just as she had been since the day he'd realised that she used alcohol as glue to patch what she saw as the broken shards of herself together. He wanted better for her, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and there were evidently no words he could string together to make her see the light. He knew because he’d tried them all, every last one.

The memories pushed his shoulders down, and she swayed into him again, her weight shifting with his. It wasn't a question of whether she deserved the help or not; it was knowing that he was bloody useless at being her white knight. At least this time, he could bring her to the saviour she needed. He rubbed his hand up and down her back once, firmly, then guided her to the chair facing Sherlock's sofa. He would have pulled away and propped himself up against the wall, had she not clung to his hand, though he knew she recognised the futility of looking to him for aid.

Sherlock aimed his unsettling stare right through her. "Begin," he commanded, gaze shifting up to John's face as if he'd gleaned all that was necessary from Harry's demeanour. John tried to keep his features still, intensely aware of his hand, clasped around his sister's shoulder, trembling under one of hers. "John, tea," he reminded, and John, comprehending that Sherlock wanted Harry facing him without the benefit of a crutch, slipped free of them both, filled the kettle, and set it to boil.

He only heard silence, though, and as he rinsed out his mug, he looked over his shoulder to see Harry twisting her hands in her lap. Just as he turned off the tap, he heard Sherlock say flatly, "You should have told him that you'd patched things up with your wife. He’s been worrying over you and Clara both." John caught his breath in his throat at this accusation. Had Clara taken Harry back, then? He turned fully around to see Sherlock drawing his hands together, the tips of his index fingers meeting just in front of his lips. It made the venom in his voice seem all the more like a judgement from on high, when the mouth forming the words was hidden. "Though I have long observed that you reach out to him only when you need something."

Harry's hands had gone still and she was staring at Sherlock like a rabbit would a snake. John could see her mouth moving, but no sounds came out. His nickname finally emerged from her throat, strangled: "Jay." They looked at each other, and out of the corner of his eye he could make out Sherlock eagerly watching the byplay between them. He wasn't even going to enquire how Sherlock had known that he'd been toying with the idea of calling Clara – she was still number one on his phone's speed-dial – or even calling upon her, just to see if she was still standing after Harry's shit had hit the fan.

Since John had offered to sacrifice himself and take Moriarty with him, Sherlock seemed to consider the stakes of their friendship raised, and he'd not been backwards about responding. The only thing was, Sherlock also seemed to believe that _everyone else in the entire world_ – first and foremost his recalcitrant sister – _also_ owed John absolute allegiance and care, and he very evidently resented John being treated like what he was, an ordinary bloke.

But surely even that frankly alarming mindset could not account for all of the frost in Sherlock's tone. John made Sherlock's tea, stirring it briskly, and realised that some of Sherlock's umbrage came from the timing of this meeting. Sherlock was insatiably curious about Harry, about anyone in John's life, really, and that he had to meet her when he was ill and tired and far from his best was chafing at him. John handed him the tea and said absolutely nothing about what a trial Sherlock must have been to his parents as a child.

And if he was the slightest bit bucked up by Sherlock's evident partisanship, he kept mum about that too.

He couldn't perch on the arm of Harry's chair, not unless he wanted his bad leg to lock up and cause him to tumble gracelessly to the floor after a few minutes, but he stood next to his sister, letting his hip push gently against her shoulder. "Just tell him everything," he counselled. "Start at the beginning. We'll discuss Clara later, if you like."

John felt a pang when she looked up at him gratefully. God, her eyes looked so tired. "This all has to do with Clara," Harry said haltingly, "and I should have told you, but I couldn't quite believe that she’d given me another chance, that I wouldn't fuck this one up too."

"I know," he soothed, over the sound of Sherlock's long slurp of tea; the man lost even the barest pretension to social graces when he was poorly and therefore feeling put upon and ill-used by the world.

"Clara," Harry said, turning back to Sherlock, whose spine stiffened at Harry's imploring look, "has made it a condition of seeing me that I don't touch alcohol."

"Altogether? Not weaning away?" Sherlock asked, voice rough with what John would have liked to call empathy, one addict to another, but recognised merely as phlegm.

"Cold turkey," Harry confirmed. "I –"

"Where do you meet her?" Sherlock interrupted.

"She comes to me." John swallowed involuntarily at her dead-eyed expression, trying to convince himself that he was wrong, but to no avail. Harry looked like a shell of her former self, to the point where even her voice sounded desiccated. He cast his mind back to their brief – necessarily, as they had driven each other mad inside of a week – experiment in sharing a flat, how she'd come back from a fourth date with Clara at three in the morning, waking him up with her French-farce tiptoeing and blinking at him, when he snapped on the light, with eyes defiantly in love. He wanted that Harry back, pain in the arse though she’d been. "At my flat – it's a bit of a pit, really, but we agreed that I shouldn't go back to our – I mean, her – flat until she's ready for me to be there."

"You'll wait six more months, at a minimum," Sherlock said into his mug of tea, and John wanted to slay him on the spot for being so offhand with a deduction about a woman he'd not even met yet. "But that can't be why you've come round, so, tell me what case you've brought me."

John squeezed his sister's shoulder, a private message to buck up and just spit it out, but was surprised when she neatly shrugged out of the embrace and raised her head to meet Sherlock's cool, incisive gaze head-on. Fine. She wanted honesty, not sympathy, now; John recognised the way she held herself almost at attention, remembered it from members of his squad, and, before that, from their mother, stoic Celia Watson, who had a smile sadder than tears.

"I got smashed one night anyway," Harry said, not bothering to disguise the ugly truth. "About a week after John came home, a few days after Clara left." He'd forgotten how quickly events had followed each other, how it had seemed like his homecoming was the impetus Clara had needed to speak up for herself and say that she'd had enough. He wondered if it was just that Clara had waited until she knew someone else could take over responsibility for Harry. Even then, he could see very well, she hadn't wanted to go, had already promised to come back the moment Harry quit drinking.

Maybe Sherlock was right, and love and stupidity were two words for the same thing.

"We'd just gone down – Barry, Simon, and myself – we'd gone down to close a deal, a very large deal, and the clients insisted on taking us to dinner to celebrate what had been about seven months of intense work. Four courses – you know what bank blokes are like – with wines to match, and cocktails before and scotches after." Harry paused, but Sherlock had no comment. Not because, John thought, he was cognisant of the glass house in which he lived, but because he genuinely did not care what poison Harry poured into her system or what pledges she broke. Harry mattered not one whit to him, and maybe, given the swooping of John's stomach at the confession, that was the smartest decision that could be made.

God, poor Clara.

"Next morning," Harry continued, "I got these texts on my mobile." She held up the screen so that Sherlock could see it, and John left her side to stand beside the sofa and read the screen himself.

 _FAT_ said the first. "You're not fat," John said automatically before willing himself to shut up; Harry was not here because of any self-esteem issues or because she needed his help against stinging schoolyard taunts.

Harry pressed a button, and the next text displayed said _DRUNK_. _CUNT_ came up last. Nasty, very nasty. John sat down on the arm of the sofa without quite meaning to.

Sherlock set his mug down, none too gently. "I am a _consulting detective_ , not an agony aunt," he rasped. "I could not possibly care less that someone is calling you names."

"Wait, Sherlock," John said, trying to work out what was niggling at him about Harry's statement. In response, he got a curly head pressed against his hip; he could feel Sherlock's vastly irritated sigh through the fabric of his pyjama bottoms. Suddenly he had it. "The timing on that is awfully tight. Harry gave me her old phone the day after Clara left, got drunk – what? two days later?" Harry nodded "– and this poison pen had her new number already? Why didn't the texts come to me?"

Sherlock raised his head with a look of dawning wonder. "Yes. Point." A colossal sneeze escaped him, and he fumbled in the pocket of his dressing-gown for a wad of tissues. "How did the blackmailer get hold of your new number? How did he know you'd got rid of your old phone?"

"Hang on – blackmailer? Over one slip off the wagon?" John asked, praying that Harry wasn't about to recount further lurid exploits. "There's only one person we need to keep this from, and it's not like Harry's wealthy, really wealthy, anyway; would that be worth it to a blackmailer?"

"Ah, but there's more," Sherlock said, virtually purring with satisfaction at the prospect of a real puzzle. John told himself sternly that it wasn't Sherlock's fault that he was like this, and kept quiet. "Out with it."

"I can't help you with how it started," Harry confessed, already ducking her head like she knew Sherlock's poisonous glare was coming. "I thought the letters were Clara's – she used to get these things all the time, you know." John could see her bite her lip, hard, trying to keep the water in her eyes from spilling over.

"Harriet Deborah Watson," Sherlock snapped, holding up one hand to stop what promised to be a messy flood of words and tears. "You will give me facts and only facts, and save the histrionics for a later date. _What_ kind of letters did you receive, and did you bring any with you to show me?"

"I burnt them all," Harry said softly. "But I can't forget – I can tell you everything you need to know."

"Doubtless another will be arriving shortly," Sherlock responded after a discordant sigh. John pushed Sherlock's head off his thigh, where it had resettled. Sherlock merely rolled his shoulders and continued, "Do not destroy it; bring it round to me immediately."

"Do you – do you want to know –" Harry ventured, and John winced, seeing her set herself up like that.

Sure enough, Sherlock pounced, with a withering glare. "The average human memory on visual matters is only sixty-two percent accurate. And given that you've spent years with your brain being pickled in alcohol, yours is likely to be even less reliable."

Harry nodded, as if she deserved that, and then launched into a description anyway. "Leaflet, black and white, on plain white A4, copy quality only, no ink smudged, but cheap-looking nevertheless. Probably done at a Prontaprint or Office World or somewhere like that. Closely mimicked the kinds of appeals letters that we used to get whenever Clara would send a cheque off to some charity or another."

Sherlock turned his head just enough to slice a glance at John, perhaps trying to gauge if Harry's dispassionate words were a sign of extreme intelligence – listing every detail of the form so analytically – or evasion – trying to build her courage to discuss the leaflets' content. John wasn't sure himself.

It was to him that Harry turned, like she needed to get the worst over with at once. "They said I killed a man," she said, and John couldn't move, couldn't speak. Harry could never – all her destructive urges were turned inward, not out at the world, let alone at any particular person.

Abruptly, John got up, needing an outlet for his jumbled thoughts. Pacing seemed to be the best he could do without running from the flat entirely. "Who?" he asked.

"No name yet –"

"Yet?" Sherlock demanded. "The letters are escalating?"

"Yes. First, it was just an image of this man, African, I think, lying on the ground, eyes closed. I thought it might be for a campaign, the kind of thing Clara's firm runs – legalisation of immigrants, immigrants' rights, you know, something like that. Then the next one had my name on top – _H. D. Watson_ , my professional name, can't have people refusing to take meetings with me once they know I'm not a man – and at the bottom, it said _look what you've done_. Same picture on it, but I still didn't get it." She wiped savagely at her eyes. "The next one was the same picture, only smaller, and a picture of my car underneath."

"Hit and run," Sherlock summarised, comprehension making his voice light and almost playful. "That night you celebrated your deal closing, you drove back home smashed out of your wits and hit someone, and now someone else is going to tell."

"I swear I didn't! I don't remember hitting anything, and if I had, I'd have stopped to – to check." Her last words were muffled, spoken into John's chest.

It wasn't Harry but John that Sherlock was watching, as if the truth of the situation could only be prised from his brain, as if John would tip him a secretive nod to acknowledge that his sister, his only family, was no better than a murderer. Sherlock stared John down and declared, "I despise blackmailers. And I will find the truth."

That last was a threat and a promise both, John knew, and he tightened his arms around his sister.

*

It wasn't until John heard that grinding snore again that he realised that Sherlock's touch-me-not pose on the sofa had been as much about exhaustion as it was cogitation. The noise would have been irritating, but John was too relieved that he was finally free to give way to his own thoughts to mind, really. While he was at it, he could make himself useful by cleaning the flat; it was a sufficiently mindless task, and it could hardly be denied that the place needed it.

He took the steps up to his bedroom slowly by necessity, spirals of regret blossoming in his chest that he had been so adamant about skipping the physical therapy he'd been prescribed after all the damage he'd taken at Moriarty's hands. He knew very well, as a doctor himself, how to recuperate and keep fit, plus he hadn't had the time, he'd reasoned, not with chasing after Sherlock and trying to settle into work with Sarah. Hadn't had time for Sarah either, and that had cost him more than a few pangs.

Still, her sharp eye had kept him honest, forced him to admit when pain flared in his ribs or streaked down his leg or along his arm. Sarah had even taken to wrapping his ribs up tight before the workday began, never letting her eyes linger on his chest; he hadn't flattered himself that he was that much of a catch, surely, but her determined pleasantness had been hard to take. He wished he could still call and confide in her about this mess with Harry. He badly needed a friend, someone who would _listen_ , not just brush his words away as distractions to a thought process infinitely superior to whatever he was capable of.

Lestrade, Vee, Donovan, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Sarah, Stamford – none of them was the right person. The answer hit him as hard as a kick in the teeth; the one he really wanted to talk to was Clara. Not Clara, the human rights lawyer. Not Clara, the indefatigable crusader for justice. Just Clara, his sister-in-law, who always kissed him with three little pecks on the cheek and laughed at his jokes, with whom he'd shared a hundred pots of early morning tea as they listened to the floorboards creak as Harry went about her staggeringly slow morning routine, from whom he'd got his only care packages while in Afghanistan. Clara, whom he loved absolutely and uncomplicatedly.

Of course he couldn't. He shook himself from his reverie and continued up the stairs, hoping the noise from the Hoover wouldn't wake Sherlock.

He needn't have worried; just bending down to switch the bloody thing on had him gasping and pressing the heel of one hand to his ribs in a futile effort to lessen the pain. Right. John nudged the contraption back under his bed with his foot, resigning himself to the fact that Sherlock was going to have to keep breathing the dust of a thousand chemical experiments and months of careless use into his diseased lungs. That would only hinder his convalescence, meaning Harry's case was likely to be drawn out for longer, and she was already walking on a knife's edge. It wouldn't do.

John knew his place in the pecking order of the flat very clearly. He was a prop to Sherlock's brain, doubling for Sherlock's body when necessary, second in command when not. If he couldn't clean, then at least he could cook, nourish the great brain, and lend a willing ear.

He'd trained his eyes to look automatically past anatomical specimens in the fridge and cupboards, so he hardly noticed what was there as opposed to what was not. All he could find in the cabinet to the left of the sink were a few bags of lentils, a tin of tomatoes, and a couple of lonely onions. Chopping the vegetables would be a good test for his hands, so he plucked them up and got to work.

The sulphur-induced tears streaming down his face brought Harry sharply back to the front of his mind. Surely there was no possibility that she really had run a man over? She'd been the most tender-hearted of girls, loud and boisterous when running with a pack of her friends, but quiet and dreamy, more often than not, when at home, cuddling with her one-eyed cat Gladys. She'd always loved old, weak, and battered things best, and he supposed that included him, always undersized and tagging along. If his impulse to heal had got its start from wanting to dry her tears when Gladys was mauled by a stray dog, well, surely by now she'd put the pieces together herself. It didn't require Sherlock's prowess to figure it out.

John shot a glance into the living room and saw his flatmate still lying on the sofa, his respiration audibly difficult. It was a constant balancing act, even when Sherlock was well, to determine which he needed more, rest or food. If the smell of onions frying in butter wasn't enough to wake him, then he'd just let him be.

"What is this mess?" Sherlock snapped, when, thirty minutes later, John held a plate of green lentils and crispy fried onions under his nose. "Take it away; I'm working."

"Sherlock –" was as far as John got, because Sherlock's eyes narrowed triumphantly. "I'm working on _your sister's case_ ," he crowed, or as near a crow as his abused throat could muster; "got to prove she isn't guilty of manslaughter or murder."

John looked down at him, supine still, and said, very distinctly, "You're going to eat this, or else when you do finally get up to begin your work in earnest, you'll find that you won't be able to get very far. Come on, Sherlock, it's protein, it's _necessary_. Your body requires fuel." He wondered how Sherlock's parents – or, horrors, Mycroft – had convinced him to eat; the length of limb he'd achieved argued that he'd had adequate nutrition as a child. Some days, though, John felt like all he was good for was holding up a spoon, making buzzing noises, and coaxing Sherlock to open wide for the aeroplane.

It was ridiculous that he, a doctor for God's sake, was playing nursemaid to an able-bodied man while his sister grieved and worried and drank herself to death, egged on by a filthy blackmailer. He deposited the plate on Sherlock's chest, where at the very least it would warm him up, stalked back to the kitchen to fetch his own, and sank into a chair.

He had some ideas of his own, starting with tracing the number the texts to Harry had been sent from. Surely he could come up with a good enough reason why he needed to trace the number to satisfy Lestrade; he could, he supposed, go the roundabout way and enlist Vee's help, though every instinct he had told him to keep it simple.

"John," he heard, and looked over to find Sherlock struggling to sit up while keeping the plate level. "Pass me my phone," Sherlock said, and shovelled in his first grudging bite. He typed something into his mobile, fingers flying as swiftly as ever. "We'll start with the number of our blackmailer's phone," he continued, and John nodded, relieved and glad that they were synchronised once again.

*

John took one look at Sherlock's thin silk shirt, turned him around by his shoulders, and shoved him back through the doorway to his bedroom. "You're still congested and need to stay wrapped up," he reminded Sherlock briskly, hoping the words would salve his own conscience for his failure to protest that Sherlock was planning on leaving the flat at all; Harry's distress was too immediate to allow for any delays. "Fetch your coat and your scarf, if you've no warmer shirts. Or better yet, a jumper."

The look Sherlock blazed at him at that was eloquent, flatly declaring that Sherlock would rather suffer through pneumonia for the rest of his natural existence before he would deign to wear anything so cuddly as a jumper. "You are such a blight," John said, mostly under his breath, too sure of Sherlock's inability to stay away from a puzzle to worry at all that Sherlock would hear, take offence, and leave Harry to her wretched fate.

Sherlock was only bent double twice by horrid coughing fits as they made their way out of the house and waited for a passing cab; John, disgusted with himself, wondered when he'd started counting that as a win. This was real life, not war; he didn't have to prioritise an arterial bleed over a shattered bone. But as they lingered in the doorway, looking out onto the street for a convenient cab, Sherlock couldn't turn away from him and hide his lustreless eyes and chalky complexion, and at the sight of him John revised that thought – Sherlock _was_ waging a war, one in which the earliest casualty was likely to be himself.

"You were supposed to wrap up tight," John reminded him, reaching out to secure the scarf more snugly around Sherlock's wintry throat, worry gripping him again when Sherlock protested only verbally instead of using his greater height and reach to intimidate him or slap away his hands.

"If you're going to persist in acting like my nanny, you will simply be in the way," Sherlock said haughtily just as a cab pulled up. Before John could muster a protest, he'd jumped in and slammed the door.

The cabbie took one look in his mirror at John and knew better than to drive off. John wrenched open the door and climbed in, nearly on top of Sherlock, who hadn't bothered to slide over to the other side; John ended up shoving him across like he weighed nothing at all. "No, you bastard, I'm your doctor, and you clearly need a minder."

Sherlock gave a mightily displeased sniff in lieu of any kind of retort, and John directed the cabbie to Scotland Yard. At the end of the ride, he paid, as usual, and pushed Sherlock out of the cab.

Scarred lungs or not, Sherlock's legs were as long as ever, and he fell into his accustomed stride, the one that left John half a step behind him as usual; it didn't even any scores to point out that Sherlock was wheezing when he finally reached Lestrade's office, because John was panting too.

"God almighty," was all Lestrade had to say when he saw the two of them, Sherlock doing his best to look as if he didn't need the wall to support him, John reaching out to lay a steadying hand on his flatmate's chest. "What the hell's got into you?"

John gawped silently at Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock's accustomed arrogance descended like a knight's visor snapping into place. "I require information," he snapped. Grimacing with disgust when Lestrade raised an eyebrow at his thready voice, he cleared his throat. "Got a case, need to trace a mobile number."

"What case?" Lestrade demanded. "Are you taking on work from Gregson now?" John was well aware that Lestrade was making idle conversation, knowing as he did that Sherlock had been too infuriated by the DI while working the Patterson homicide to unbend even for the most fascinating cases, which, as luck would have it, tended to fall to Lestrade instead of Gregson anyway. John saw the whole train of thought in Lestrade's unblinking gaze, and opened his mouth to lie and give Dimmock's name, but Sherlock beat him to the punch.

"Don't be absurd. I do have a website that attracts private clients. Now, the number –"

"You don't have a licence. You don't have any official standing as an investigator. You cannot just invade someone's privacy by giving me a phone number and expecting to get the owner's name and address. That's not how it's done." It was entirely possible that Lestrade thought he was being kind, and putting up obstacles to send Sherlock home and force him to rest; it was possible, but it made John clench his jaw anyway, and too late, he saw Sherlock observing the state he'd got himself into.

Without a word, Sherlock stepped forward from the wall, looking ready to shout until he got his way. John was barely able to catch him as he slumped bonelessly into his arms.

It wasn't a trick, surely; Sherlock's lips and cheeks had lost what little colour they ever possessed, and his face was cold and beaded with sweat.

"Jesus –" Lestrade bit out, rushing over to help John lay the idiot down. "What's he need?"

"Let's start with some water," John said, feeling ridiculous, because what Sherlock really needed was to stop assuming his body could continue to function on snatches of sleep and only one solid meal a week. Sherlock's head lay heavy on his lap, but the pulse at his wrist throbbed with a reassuringly steady beat. "Sherlock," he said quietly, too absorbed in watching for a telltale flutter of dark eyelashes to hear Lestrade coming up behind him, proffering a mug of water.

"John," Sherlock murmured. "The number," he reminded, at last opening his eyes, though slitting them immediately against the overhead fluorescent lights.

John nodded, as if he had any idea what he could do to wrest it from Lestrade. "He looks like shit," he heard from behind him; "bet he could do with some tea as well. Fancy a cup yourself?" Lestrade didn't wait for an answer before heading back out of his office.

"Let me up," Sherlock said, as if it were John, and not his own fatigue, holding him down. Once set gingerly on his feet, he prowled his way over to Lestrade's computer.

"Sherlock," John warned, caught between his desire to prop Sherlock up and to keep a lookout for the DI. He stayed close to the door.

"He purposely left us alone in here, and it would be foolish to waste the opportunity. Unless you'd really rather approach his wife and have her plead your sister's case? No, I thought not." Sherlock was trying various passwords as he spoke. "Not idiotic enough to use a birth date or his wedding date as his password. What else could it be?" John looked back at him, white as a sheet and swaying slightly on his feet, but Sherlock seemed to be addressing the framed photograph of Lestrade and Vee that was perched on the desk. "Ah, of course. Flight numbers for their honeymoon trip to the Maldives."

"How on earth would you know that?" John asked, but Sherlock had disappeared inside his head and didn't bother to respond.

"As suspected," Sherlock said, after two more minutes of rapid typing. "The number belongs to an unregistered pay-as-you-go mobile, most likely bought second-hand and paid for with cash, somewhere in London. No name or address can be matched to it." He was, John noted incredulously, actually faintly smiling as he shut everything back down. "That would have been too simple in any case." He finished up and laid something flat and dark across the keyboard. "Not to worry – I still have plenty back at the flat," he said, and with that, John recognised one of Lestrade's warrant cards.

John wondered if Sherlock meant the return of stolen property as a gesture of thanks. And he wondered how much gratitude he owed both men for their machinations, for not letting him waste his time begging Vee for a favour that would have cost her some pangs of her own. Not for a second did he let himself wonder if saving Harry was worth whatever it would cost.

*

"No more police," Sherlock croaked from the sofa, swathed in the duvets from his bed and John's bed and a couple of blankets nicked from the back of Mrs. Hudson's linen cupboard as well. There was a scarlet pashmina draped over his head, and John entertained the mad thought that, given the bulk of the blankets and the delicacy of his features, Sherlock looked like Jabba the Hutt with the head of Little Red Riding Hood resting on the shapeless mound of his shoulders. Sherlock hadn't protested being bundled up, except for a mutinous gleam in his eye when he'd realised his hands would be trapped and he'd be unable to text, but he'd comprehended that John needed to soothe his conscience as best he could. And, he pointed out smugly, without the use of his hands, he could not eat. John, unamused, stuck a bite-sized piece of a sandwich into Sherlock's mouth without so much as a by-your-leave and stared him down until it was grudgingly chewed and swallowed.

"What?" John asked, watching as the first faint flushes of colour started to bloom in Sherlock's cheeks from his body temperature being raised by the swaddling. "We must have other leads –"

"No." Sherlock's voice was flat again. "Half of that pitching and swooning I did in Lestrade's office was to get his eye off you."

"Oh, really –" John said, exasperated; that slump had been too ungraceful to be feigned.

"Really." Sherlock cut him off without compunction. "One of the virtues of your face is that it transmits your thoughts quite clearly. You were next door to telling Lestrade straight out that the case held a personal interest for you." He coughed, a bitter, choking sound, and John's fists clenched again. "If it becomes necessary to involve the police once more, I'll go myself while you work from another angle."

At least he'd never had to fight Sherlock for the right to work. He nodded his agreement. "What else can we do now?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, but John thought it was honest fatigue, not irritation or impatience, that informed the action. "We need to see a new leaflet. In the meantime, we need to determine the route Harry drove, assess her car for any damage, and . . ."

"And wait?"

Sherlock nodded, eyes still closed, and John let the weariness on the man's face persuade him that this was not the time to try to convince Sherlock that Harry was absolutely innocent. Whatever Sherlock's beliefs, he'd do the work with skill and his findings would be all the proof he needed.

*

John was in Sainsbury’s, reaching for a twisted hunk of fresh ginger root, when his hand was clasped. He looked round and saw that it was Clara, shredding her lower lip with her teeth but meeting his gaze dead on. He hauled her in without a second thought, arms going round her fiercely.

God, finally, there was one person who looked exactly as she should, not skin and bones like Harry and Sherlock, just as shiningly beautiful as ever. He could hear the susurrus of his own hair as she dragged her palm over his head, cupping his skull just the way she used to, and then his name, murmured low and sweet into his ear. "I've missed you," he said, glad to say something entirely true without weighing his words. He got an extra squeeze in response, and when she pulled back she was smiling, her fingers on his cheek.

"I'd forgotten about these wrinkles right here," she said, thumb just brushing the crows' feet next to his left eye.

"There are more of them now," he acknowledged. He looked at her nearly empty shopping basket and realised she had been wandering, not just dashing about in a hurry, picking up things for the week. "Look, come home and have breakfast with me?" He didn't let go of her hand until she nodded, and then he pushed himself into action. "I just need a few things," he said, putting her packet of ground coffee into his own basket and dropping the ginger root on top.

He carried both the bags out to her car and pointed her in the direction of Baker Street. Maybe it would be best this way, he thought, letting chance dictate what came next rather than trying to puzzle through the optimal way to keep Sherlock from being too disturbed by another new presence in the flat. The quiet between him and Clara was as restful as ever, and he only had to gesture when she needed to turn left or right; she found a parking space two houses down, and eyed the building approvingly as they approached it.

Sherlock was nowhere to be seen, and the only visible trace of him was the red pashmina he'd had wound about his head last night, flung carelessly over the arm of the sofa. He got her seated at the mercifully clean kitchen table. "We'll have to break into your coffee if you want the good stuff," he said over his shoulder as he put the rest of the groceries away, angling his body to limit her view into the cupboards and fridge. She nodded her permission, and he set to work making their drinks. "What would you like to eat?"

He couldn't believe he'd forgotten how she liked to lean forward on her crossed forearms and look up through her eyelashes at him – her little trick to pretend she didn't have three inches on him and Harry both, she used to tease, the willowy bint. "You aren't going to make me eat my porridge?" she inquired, already grinning at the old joke. "How else can I grow up big and strong in this cold country?"

He smiled to himself and fetched the oats from the cupboard. There was no need for milk or sugar in coffee as good as the kind Clara bought, so he washed up two mugs and let her fuss with the coffeepot in peace. Just the smell of the coffee had him moving more quickly, and her face lit up when he brought two large bowls of porridge with plenty of milk and a pinch of chilli powder to the table.

"Well, no, it won't put hair on your chest, but it's really very good for you nevertheless," Clara chanted as she had whenever one of them had made porridge from Clara's mother's recipe for their breakfast, both of them laughing at Harry's disgust for what she called "that sloppy mess." She took a big bite and grinned. "My compliments to the chef."

"I haven't had this in years," John said, remembering those mornings as unfailingly sunny and cold, like they'd been preserved in amber, ready to be plucked and held in the palm of his hand when the moment arose.

Clara, bless her, refused to allow the incipient melancholy in his tone to take over. "We might be the only two people in the world who can actually stomach this stuff, John," she said, laying her free hand down on the table so that their fingers just barely brushed.

"Certainly you are the only two people in this flat who can make that claim," Sherlock said from the doorway, and John noted that his voice had gained a little strength, though he was as wan as ever. "It looks revolting."

"Good morning," Clara said, clearly struggling not to laugh.

"Clara, this is my flatmate, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Clara Endriseh."

"Coffee," was Sherlock's response to the introduction, made as he seated himself at the table like a proper person instead of retiring to his usual position on the sofa and expecting to be waited on hand and foot. John saw Sherlock's spidery hand reaching out for his mug, so he grabbed it and stood.

"Not for you," he said authoritatively, gauging Sherlock's temperature with the back of one hand against his forehead. Sherlock's glittering eyes promised him a messy death for the indignity, but he didn't duck away. "I'm making you something special." John knew better than to pretend he had some pride just for Clara's benefit; she would never think less of him, even though he sounded like an anxious parent bribing a sickly child to take medicine.

Without needing any words or significant looks, Clara caught on that giving Sherlock any attention would be dangerous, so she turned her attention back to her breakfast; John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as he went through the process of boiling water, grating ginger root, and squeezing a lemon. He mixed it all up in a mug, added a generous spoonful of honey, and set the concoction down in front of Sherlock.

"This looks vile," Sherlock said, even as his hands cupped the mug like they were chilled through.

"And yet you'll drink it," John said pleasantly, swallowing the last of his coffee and turning back to his porridge.

This time, Clara clearly couldn't help herself. Her laugh rang through the kitchen, and John felt his insides warm from the sound. Sherlock, meanwhile, acted like he'd gone deaf, not deigning to react in any way at all; he just took a disinterested sip of his drink, and that was what got John giggling as well.

"How ever did you meet?" Clara asked when she'd got herself under control. "The two of you together are priceless."

"Mutual acquaintance," Sherlock said curtly. His eyes were intent on the contents of his mug rather than Clara's face. John wondered what good deed he'd done, that Sherlock was behaving himself and not deducing every one of Clara's thoughts and deeds from the past six months.

One sharp glance his way was all the warning John got. "Do you believe your wife is capable of murder?"

The mirth drained from Clara's face when she looked up to see Sherlock gazing intently at her, and John doing his best to apologise with his eyes. "You . . ." she stammered. " _What?_ "

"Harry's being accused –"

"Blackmailed," Sherlock cut in.

"– of running someone over, killing him." John didn't know what words to use, how to keep from bludgeoning Clara, but someone had to stand between her and Sherlock.

"Whilst intoxicated," Sherlock added.

"No," Clara whispered. She buried her face in her hands, just for a moment, the perfect shape of her skull and cropped hair brought low, and then she raised her head, defiantly, and said, right to Sherlock's face, "No."

John nodded at her, and Sherlock's gaze ticked from her to him like a spectator at Wimbledon. "Ah, there it is," he rasped. "You've closed ranks against me. Never mind that she's hurt both of you time and again. Never mind that she could very well have done it. Never mind that she _burnt all the evidence of blackmail._ You've made up your minds without having the facts –"

"Because we love her!" John shouted. God damn it, how many times did he have to have this fight with Sherlock? "We're not ignoring the facts – there just aren't any to be had yet!"

"And when I find them?" Sherlock looked almost panicked himself, for some reason. "If she is guilty –"

"Then we'll have to live with it," John said, reaching out his hands to Clara. She held fast to him. It would be easier to say this if he didn't have to look at Sherlock. "I would never ask you not to find the truth."

"John –" Sherlock said, quietly, like his throat had just been put through too much; he didn't continue, and the silence spun out between them.

It lasted until Clara asked, tentatively, "Tell me?"

Sherlock's eyes remained down, and John squeezed her hands gently, thinking back. It had been hard to hear Harry recounting the whole sordid mess, but it would have been worse to hear second-hand. And Clara had already been blindsided by Sherlock Bloody Holmes. He said, as kindly as he could, willing her to remember that he loved her, "Darling, it's not our story to tell."

Clara stood then, not quite as graceful as she usually was, and looked down at Sherlock. Her soft Kenyan accent was more pronounced than John had ever heard it, a clear sign of agitation. "You love the truth. We love her. Seems like everyone's got a stake in this, so you had better do your best."

John felt her lips on his cheek, three quick kisses, and then she was gone. Sherlock still hadn't moved, didn't turn even when John took his jacket down from its peg and went off, forty minutes early, to the surgery.

*

The silence in the flat felt thick but sharp. John continued to make mugs of the hot honey-lemon-ginger drink, all of which Sherlock dutifully swallowed down, but each of them had his own laptop, and the telly stayed off.

John honestly couldn't think of a thing to say. It would have been one thing if Sherlock had had good reason to interrogate Clara, but there had been no evidence to corroborate, nothing to prompt it but Sherlock's own inhuman inquisitiveness. Clara had not deserved to be treated like that.

He heard a gasp as Sherlock took a sip of his still too-hot drink, and looked up. Sherlock's face was pale and drawn, purplish smudges under his eyes. He was tapping away at his keyboard, shivering slightly in his inadequate pyjamas and dressing-gown. John stood and pulled the blanket off the back of his chair, crossed the room, and draped it over Sherlock, who held perfectly still.

"I don't _want_ her to be guilty, John." The words were heavy, like stones dropped into a well.

John weighed them as he went to put his own mug in the sink. They were careful, yes, and precise; there was no reason to doubt him. "I believe you," he said.

He came back to his laptop, remembering he still owed Mike and Vee emails declining their invitations. There was a message from Harry in his inbox. "Sherlock, look – I'm going to forward this to you. Harry sent an email with an attachment."

He opened it on his laptop, knowing Sherlock was doing the same across the room. She'd scanned the latest leaflet. This one featured the photograph she'd mentioned, a man with skin not quite as dark as Clara's, eyes closed, lying on the ground. He was wearing a jumper, cheap-looking dress trousers, and rather battered trainers; he could have been a cabbie. Next to that photograph was a still from a security or CCTV camera, time- and date-stamped, of the rear of Harry's car – number plate clearly visible – alone on the road, just a vague shape in the driver's seat. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? was spelt out in anonymous capital letters that looked like they'd come from a copybook.

Sherlock spoke as John's eyes focused on the dead face once more. "What do you make of it?"

"He's African, or of African descent. Late twenties, at a guess. Strong features." He thought back to his days doing rounds at hospitals. "Dressed like many immigrants tend to dress when they're new to the country. No watch, glasses, or jewellery." The still, dead face was somehow wise and sad, but he knew better than to mention that.

"Before you veer off into physiognomy," Sherlock said, sounding sharper now that he had actual evidence to work with, "what else do you see?"

"That's definitely Harry's car and number plate. I can't tell if that's her in the driver's seat, but Clara has her own car anyway, and no one else would have access to Harry's."

"Do you not recognise the location of the photograph of the car?"

John peered at his screen, clicked on the image to try to enlarge it, but only succeeded in blurring it. All he could see by way of landmarks were a rather large tree and some bushes that looked naked without blossoms. "Should I?"

Sherlock was sporting his most shark-like grin. "I know precisely where that car was when this image was recorded." He stood, decisively, and flung off his dressing-gown. "Second mistake the bastard's made. The first was keeping it all too quiet – there's not been a word about a fatal hit-and-run on any news blogs or newspaper websites."

John watched him disappear into his room and started to smile. When he heard Sherlock call out, "Coming?" it blossomed into a proper grin.

*

"Two days ago in Lestrade's office you could barely stand on your own two feet!" John expostulated at his idiotic flatmate, who seemed bent upon climbing the twenty-foot pole on which a bright yellow speed camera was mounted.

"And you're still nursing cracked ribs and a badly bruised femur and shoulder. It can hardly be you who climbs up there," Sherlock returned. "In any case, you don't know what you're looking for."

"Tell me and I will," John said, trying logic, even though Sherlock always became magically deaf when he did. "And I know you can work magic with mobiles, but I must have missed the moment when you became an all-round technological savant."

Sherlock's whole face was bright in a way John hadn't seen in days, his stride full of energy that had been missing; here, now, he was in his element, fully alive. Even the exasperated look Sherlock threw at him seemed somehow _happier_ , and John couldn't deny that the resumption of the rhythm between them was easing the tension in his own shoulders. "What else do you think I was doing yesterday, John? I've been consulting with someone who offered me the necessary knowledge about cameras. Give me your phone."

John handed it over. As soon as it was in his pocket, Sherlock started shimmying up the pole, making decent enough progress that John bit back his protests. Sherlock took pictures of the camera with John's phone, climbed carefully down, and got the GPS coordinates for the spot once he was back on the ground.

"Sherlock," John said as they walked away, "why was it a mistake to send a picture of Harry's car on the road?"

Sherlock had a number of diabolical smiles, and he pasted one on his face now. "Because, John, it's child's play to track down the camera that was positioned to take that image. And that camera, as all of the nearby signs attest, is for police use only, meant to catch motorists speeding."

"Harry's being blackmailed by a copper?" John asked, feeling like he'd been punched in the gut.

"Not at all. There is a small secondary camera affixed like a parasite on top of the official one. No doubt that's the one that produced that extremely convenient image of your sister's car," Sherlock mused.

"Yes, that makes me feel much better," John bit out. How could they track a camera that was positioned on top of another one?

Sherlock laughed as if dark humour always got the same response as light. "It should. We're closing in."

*

"You've noted, of course, that the blackmailer hasn't specified what it is that Harry is to provide, haven't you?" Sherlock asked, tucking into his lemon rice with an almost healthy appetite. No one would suspect the amount of pleading and bullying it took to get him into a restaurant when what he really wanted was to go straight to Scotland Yard and flay everybody in his path until he had the link back to Harry's case.

"Yes," John answered, because he'd spent the last few days in the surgery worrying over that while treating a steady stream of patients. "She does work at the largest private fund in Europe," he said, thinking aloud. He gave Sherlock one of his fried cashew nuts. "She has access to all sorts of information."

"Mmm," Sherlock mused. "You'll have to go round to see her, try to narrow down what that could be. Take her some lunch, if you like. She's partial to aloo gobi and lamb kadhai, isn't she?"

"While you work out how to trace the second camera?" John asked, refusing to ask how Sherlock had deduced Harry's standard order at Indian restaurants. "Got someone in IT – that consultant of yours – who's as in love with you as Molly?" It was the first time since the showdown with Moriarty, when Sherlock had cracked his head against the lip of the pool and swallowed about half its contents and John had been flung and bounced against the concrete like a deflating ball, that one of them had said her name to the other.

It didn't seem to affect Sherlock. "Molly was infatuated, not in love."

"And that makes it okay to lead her on?" John demanded. He didn't even bother challenging Sherlock's use of the past tense; arguing over "Jim's" function as a romantic placeholder would have to wait.

"If she knows it means nothing to me, how precisely am I leading her on?" Sherlock asked, the look on his face betraying his private conviction that he was being not only patient but reasonable. "I do what I must to solve my cases."

"That's the thing, Sherlock; you don't have to resort to tactics like that. With your brain, you could come up with a hundred other ways to get what you need."

"It seems that I am forever disappointing you, John." With that, Sherlock stood, tying his scarf around his throat.

"That's not – that's not what I said," John sighed, dropping some cash on the table. He didn't know why he insisted on picking fights with Sherlock, especially now, when Sherlock was clearly trying his best to make up for what Moriarty had done to them both. John hobbled after Sherlock, leg stiffer than it had been for days.

*

"Can I help –" the redheaded receptionist started to ask, before the man looking over her shoulder at her monitor glanced up, saw John, and said, "Oh! You must be Harry's brother, the soldier."

"Yeah," John agreed, taken aback not by the recognition – people had always said how much he and Harry resembled each other, though neither of them had ever agreed – but by the identification of his former profession. "John Watson. Is she available?"

The receptionist smiled prettily at him. "Let me check, sir," she said, tapping keys on her phone and speaking in an undertone to someone, presumably Harry. "You can go back now, if you like," she said. "Down this corridor, make the first left, then the last door on your right."

John nodded his thanks – she really was quite fetching, even if she did look decades younger than he felt – and set off. He paid no mind to the heads that turned as he passed by, just walked as briskly as he could until he saw Harry behind a sheet of plate-glass. Her office was stark and efficient-looking, all metal and computer components and wires. Sitting in the midst of that in her navy blue suit, she looked like she belonged; he tugged at his cream-coloured jumper almost reflexively.

"Jay," she said, standing. "Have you –? Has Sherlock figured it out?"

"More to do, yet," John half-apologised, trying not to let the flat look in her eyes gnaw at him. "But we should talk about –"

Her phone rang, and she automatically sat back down and reached for it. "Watson," she said, then, "no, I sent it on Monday; I'm waiting for outside counsel's response."

Harry hung up, apologising, but every time John started to dance near the topic of what prize the blackmailer could be after, they were interrupted, either by the phone or by someone stopping by her office to talk to her about a deal. John left after the third time their conversation was put on hold, and as he walked by the pretty receptionist, he remembered that he hadn't asked if Harry had had a chance to talk to Clara, or to ask about their relationship.

Harry would need all the strength Clara's unshakeable faith could give her. And he knew he'd feel better if he could offer tangible proof of her innocence to Sherlock, so he hunted out Harry's car in the company car park and inspected it closely. There was a dent in the front bumper, but he was prepared to swear that he remembered that being caused by another motorist's inept parallel parking; certainly there were no scratches, bloodstains, or other marks that would be left by an impact with a human body. He took as many pictures as his phone would hold and headed home.

*

"Never mind, John. Doubtless you did your best," Sherlock said almost kindly as John set a pair of mugs on the coffee table.

"What?" John asked, wondering if he had somehow bollocksed up the drinks or some ongoing quest of Sherlock's to keep the coffee table clear.

"Were you not about to tell me that you weren't able to pin your sister down regarding her access to information that our blackmailer might covet?" Sherlock was in his favourite prayer pose on his back, legs hooked over one arm of the sofa, with his eyes resolutely closed. John wondered if he in turn was supposed to deduce that Sherlock had figured him out based solely on the sound of his footsteps – hesitant and shuffling instead of quick and eager, or something along those lines. "It's of no matter," Sherlock continued, "considering how likely it is that Harry herself doesn't know what he's after. Odds are he would want to wind her up to a fever pitch, drive her out of her mind, before revealing what exactly it is he wants. Hence the texts and the barrage of leaflets."

Sherlock swung his legs around and down, sitting up in one fluid movement. "Now that you've got that off your chest, I have good news." He met and matched John's smile. "The primary camera – the speed camera – we found is no longer funded and serves only as a deterrent; there is no film that could have been used to blackmail Harry."

"So the image definitely came from the second camera?" John asked quickly, taken aback when Sherlock's smile grew broad and strangely fond.

"Nicely reasoned," Sherlock said, "despite your emotional distractions."

"So?" John prompted, waiting for the punchline. He nudged the mug of honey-lemon-ginger closer to Sherlock, who rolled his eyes but sipped obligingly.

"I've traced the output of the signal to a university IT room, the location of which matches the postmarks on the leaflets."

Blast. That was as close to anonymous as it got, pretty much, what with all the people coming and going at all hours. "So we've got to go and stake out the IT room?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, draining the mug in one long swallow and lying back down. "I need to work out how best to proceed."

There was a brief, muffled thump on the door, and John rose to answer the knock. Mrs. Hudson entered, her hands full with an enormous parcel wrapped in brown paper. John took it from her, surprised at its weight and rather marvelling that Mrs. Hudson hadn't hurt herself, climbing up the stairs carrying it. He set it down on the coffee table, and Sherlock turned just enough to be able to see out of the corner of his eye. John smirked at this display of curiosity and went to fetch the scissors.

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson wanted to know.

"Surely you can allow John the thirty seconds he needs to open it and then you will know all," Sherlock said crisply.

"But can't you guess?" she queried innocently – rather too innocently, come to think of it. John very much approved of a landlady able to take the piss out of Sherlock and his deductions on occasion.

"I never guess," Sherlock sniffed disdainfully, but John noticed that he didn't turn his back on the grand opening or offer any theories.

Mrs. Hudson squealed like a kid at Christmas at the bounty inside the box. "Oh, look! There's sausages and cheeses and chocolates! You both could do with some feeding up, if you don't mind my saying." Her hands worked busily to clear space for the goods John kept pulling out of the box; he felt vaguely like a disreputable parlour magician. Her voice lost quite a bit of its enthusiasm when she saw the contents of the last packet. "And . . . nicotine patches." At that, one corner of Sherlock's mouth ticked upwards.

"From 'xxx Clara'?" he enquired as if there were no doubt in his mind; his tone was arch but not derisive, and John was glad that Clara, even in absentia, wasn't being put down with a sneer.

"From Clara and Harry both," John corrected, flashing the card with two signatures in front of Sherlock's eyes, fixed on the ceiling. He felt his heart lift at the sight of their names curving round each other, hoping that it signified that Harry's recent trouble had actually served as a catalyst for their reunion. Love's other synonym, after all, especially when it came to Harry, was stubbornness.

He sent Mrs. Hudson off with thanks and the largest Fruit & Nut bar he'd ever seen – he wanted the Galaxy bar for himself and was willing to bet that Sherlock would appreciate the violence required for the chocolate oranges – and went to find room for the rest in the fridge and cupboards. There were fewer biological samples to clear out from the fridge than he had feared. "We'll have a proper tea today," he called from the kitchen, "and we'll figure out how to take the bastard down."

"A cup of tea and a spot of violence," Sherlock said, with almost palpable fondness. "Truly, John, it takes so little to make you happy."

John laughed and continued binning the oddities that had been housed in the salad drawer.

*

"Trust me, Sherlock," John said, wondering when this had all got to be funny rather than frustrating. Perhaps it was just that the feeling of momentum, of getting somewhere in the case, was giving him a bit of a high. Or it could be the frankly massive sugar rush hitting his system. "Neither one of us could pass for a regular student at university."

"Post-grad?" Sherlock tried, continuing to decant liquid at the kitchen table. His voice sounded thick, tongue evidently unwilling to move and possibly dislodge the Lindt Thin that John had placed on it.

"You've got the hair for it," John said, looking at the messy mop on Sherlock's head. His own was getting overly long as well; they'd neither of them considered anything so mundane as personal maintenance for the last few months. The stack of Thins was decreasing at a pretty alarming rate. He popped another one in his mouth, savouring the sweet richness as it melted on his tongue.

Sherlock trained his gaze on the ends of his own hair. "Yes, it is getting distracting. You'll have to cut it." He swallowed the last traces of sweetness and eyed John speculatively, as if wondering when his flatmate had turned into the bearer of such delights.

"What? Do you normally recruit flatmates to do your barbering?" John asked, unable to picture Sherlock sitting still for long enough, perhaps one reason his hair was as _exuberant_ as it was.

"Not at all. But then, this –" his eyes pierced John through "– has not conformed to any rules I might have had about cohabiting." He swirled the clear contents of the beaker around, watching for precipitants. "So, mature student? No, that role requires too much earnestness. Post-grad? No, don't want to get the blackmailer's hackles up or play on his inferiority complex." Before John could ask, he said, "Clearly, the man has an inferiority complex if his avocation is to tumble others down from the heights they've achieved. He can't be a student himself, as that would allow him still to be climbing socially, or at least have contacts who could open a few doors for him. He must be working there, at the IT room, watching all the students work their way up. So. I will need to present myself as someone who is no threat at all to him, at least not intellectually, but perhaps physically? We don't know what he looks like, so there's no way to prepare for that. Might as well make it a strength. Yes. I'll go in as an athlete – a wounded athlete, there to utilise the university's therapy facilities. A bit dim, wanting help with his phone or email or some such matter clearly beyond his grasp."

Sherlock set the beaker down, a small smile playing on his lips. "What? No 'fantastic' from the audience tonight?"

The teasing startled a laugh out of John. "You wanker. Actually, I was just wondering if you really needed another person for your conversations."

"Better you than the skull," Sherlock said, dry as the desert, and leaned over to take John's offered chocolate delicately between his teeth.

*

"Wait, you were serious about this?" John asked. Possibly he should have enquired before Sherlock handed him a pair of scissors. "I don't know how to cut hair!"

"John. I assure you that your intelligence is greater than that of any barber I've known." Sherlock seemed to consider the matter closed.

John did not. "This kind of skill has nothing to do with intelligence," he pointed out.

"Just get on with it," Sherlock said, stripping off his shirt and sitting on one of the kitchen chairs flipped backward, long spine and long neck making one pale line.

John tried not to think of all the ways this could go disastrously wrong and reached for one dark curl, pulling it taut. _Snip._ It corkscrewed back into place and he assessed it as clinically as he could. A bit shorter than he meant, really, but curly hair was more forgiving of uneven lengths. He shuddered to think what he'd look like if their positions had been reversed; he'd probably have ended up looking like a demented hedgehog. He ran his hand through Sherlock's mess of hair, surprisingly warm and thick, and cut what remained poking out from between his fingers. The repetition of the motions relaxed John, and soon he felt like he'd been cutting Sherlock's hair for years, feeling the curls against his palm.

The haircut was having a lulling, if not soporific, effect on Sherlock as well; his eyes were closed and he hummed softly as John turned his head this way and that. "Boxer," Sherlock said.

"Hmmm?" It didn't do to be distracted, pleased by how agreeably malleable Sherlock was being, how restful it was when the great brain was asleep.

"I'll be a boxer, injured in a previous bout. So you can clip it closer than you have been."

John stopped the automatic motions of his hands. He'd always thought, given the way Sherlock dressed, that there was a healthy amount of vanity there – frankly, more than enough – but if Sherlock was really prepared to alter his appearance just for Harry's sake –

"It's not for her, John. Cut."

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair once more, against the grain from nape to crown, and bent to his task again.

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/innie_darling/pic/0000fs20/)

*

Sherlock had unearthed, from the depths of his wardrobe, or possibly from Narnia, a collection of athletic clothes – tracksuit bottoms, t-shirts, and fleecy sweatshirts – that seemed utterly foreign to the clean, crisp, sharp image he so relentlessly projected. He seemed delighted by John's befuddlement. "These clothes are entirely appropriate for my new role," he said loftily, as if he had a Mary Poppins bag of such tricks.

John felt the floor shift further under his feet when Sherlock donned the clothes and paced the living room, his entire body – from the faint frown lines marring his forehead to the slight hesitation as he moved his left arm – acting in service of the lie that he was an injured prize fighter. "You see I've been observing you," Sherlock said, just as John was marvelling over the subtlety of his actions; Sherlock moved like someone who couldn't bring himself to admit quite how grievously he'd been injured, someone who'd always relied on his own rude physical health and was hardly able to cope with the new, unwelcome circumstances thrust suddenly upon him.

The man should have been on the stage, John thought, especially now that he was going whole hog. If this was what he was capable of, then why hadn't he done it earlier, on the cases Moriarty had sent his way? With Kenny Prince, he'd been nimble rather than thorough, swanning in with his obviously expensive coat and luxurious curls – never mind that a paparazzo would have had to get snaps of Princess Diana rising from her grave to afford that kind of rich-tit fashion – and relying on a sort of shock-and-awe campaign to get him to ignore such incongruous details. And with Amelia Monkford, he'd managed to wrong-foot her with his crocodile tears and shammed emotion, quick little bursts of blatant information that she read entirely wrong.

But _this_ , John realised, this was strategy, not tactics; this was Sherlock settling in and preparing for a long fight. This had to be Sherlock on his way to victory.

*

"You cannot come," Sherlock said again, but John planted himself in the doorway and tried to pretend that he wasn't spoiling for a fight.

"It's not the police," John pointed out, mindful of Sherlock's last dictates. "If this is the bastard who's poisoning Harry's life, I need to be there."

Sherlock didn't seem to need a mirror as he made his preparations, apparently relying on instinct and maybe John's reactions. He looked younger with his hair so short on the sides, the top just long enough for soft curls that were boyishly tousled, convincingly pulled out of place by the hood of his sweatshirt. The tracksuit bottoms added bulk to his frame, camouflaging the lissomeness usually outlined with stark clarity by sleek suits. He was bouncing in place as if he had more energy than he knew what to do with, but he took the time to explain. "John. We will be at a decided disadvantage if your face is introduced into the matter. You do look a great deal like your sister."

John deflated, knowing better than to argue the point. Sherlock eyed him speculatively. "Though it might be good to leave ourselves some room to negotiate. Perhaps not an injury incurred in the ring after all. Instead of a shoulder subluxation, a broken tibia, as one might expect from a car wreck."

"What?" John knew that he was behind on his sleep, but he hadn't felt the effects until he tried to parse Sherlock's latest proclamation.

"You've inspired me," Sherlock said, producing an iPod from the capacious kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt and donning the headphones. He jogged lightly in place, now affecting a slight limp, looking for all the world like a hungry young fighter determined to make his way to the top. "Get some rest. I'll be back soon."

That at least was simple enough not to need translation. John nodded dumbly and took himself off to bed.

*

He woke to find his phone's inbox full of texts from Sherlock, detailing with perfect grammar and perfect irreverence all of his observations on the way to the IT room and then back home again. He could hear Sherlock downstairs, drawing out long phrases on his violin, though the sun was only peeking over the horizon.

The acoustics of the flat were such that the second floor tended to ring like a concert hall once Sherlock hit a certain decibel level; at least he was playing actual melodies and not any of that modern atonal nonsense.

John shivered in the clear half-light as he pulled on his thickest jumper and a pair of woolly socks, then made his way to the loo. Apparently, the bathroom was another prime spot for someone wishing to hear Sherlock's full repertoire on the violin. Not yet fully awake, he managed to splash a bit of water on his pyjama pants as he brushed his teeth and washed his face, and the cold wetness startled a hiss out of him. He didn't bother heading back to his bedroom to change his clothes.

If he sat down to listen to Sherlock, he wouldn't have the energy to get back up, so he didn't even look anywhere but the kitchen as he walked down the hall. There were two clean mugs already out, as if Sherlock had wanted tea but not the bother of making it, or, to put it more kindly, had intended to make it but been swept up by the need to create music instead. John leant against the counter and let the fluid, yearning melody, throbbing almost like a human voice could, swirl around him. When the kettle boiled, he made tea and took the mugs back to the living room. He sat beside Sherlock on the sofa, liking to feel the vibrations as well as hear the notes, and within a few beats one of Sherlock's long, pale feet had drifted to touch his knee.

John looked up at that, but Sherlock's eyes were fixed on some far-off point surely only musicians could see, and he seemed somehow out of his body in any case. The storm of emotion in the music peaked and then began to diminish, thick chords giving way to single, languid notes, as if the melody were winding itself up into a neat little bundle, and in no more than three minutes, Sherlock let his violin and bow down into the rest position.

John watched imperturbably while Sherlock loosened the bow strings and packed the instrument safely in its case, though he could see tension lingering in the set of Sherlock's shoulders and the way he held his head. That kind of stiffness usually disappeared after a session with the violin; John took one last sip of hot tea and set his mug down so as to be ready.

He was still caught by surprise when Sherlock nestled up against him. Frowning, John caught his too-thin face in his hands, looking for signs that he'd relapsed and was feeling poorly again. His face was cool, and though his eyes were skittishly locking onto John's and breaking away again, he seemed fine. John let his left hand drop, but his right lingered on the hot, soft skin just under Sherlock's jaw that had been pressed against the chinrest for hours. "What is it?" he asked, taking in the signs of evident weariness.

Sherlock shook his head stubbornly, sooty eyelashes and dark circles conspiring to throw his eyes into unreadable shadow. "Did you read the texts I sent you?"

"Not all of them. What's the matter?"

"I told you I think better when I talk aloud," Sherlock muttered petulantly, though his shoulders were rapidly losing that awful stiffness.

"I wanted to come with you," John reminded him, leaving it at that; no need to say that Sherlock could have talked to him, rather than resorting to texting him, if only he'd been allowed to be there.

"We have work to do," was all Sherlock said, stretching out one long arm to pull John's laptop out from under the sofa. "There are some searches you can run." He set the computer on John's lap and stayed where he was; John could feel his own minimal body heat bleeding into Sherlock, leaving him cold. "His name is Charles Augustus Milverton."

*

Sherlock emerged from his bedroom dressed in his boxer clothes while John was having a sandwich and attempting to catch up on his emails. Sherlock appeared distinctly unimpressed with both activities and chivvied John out the door so quickly that John barely had time to grab his cane and both of their coats as he went.

They still hadn't discussed what the search results John had found meant; the raw data had yet to be synthesised. "Sherlock, what –?" was as far as John got.

"Escott," Sherlock corrected briskly. "That's this idiotic boxer's surname. I haven't come up with a bloke-y enough first name yet."

However he was dressed, he still seemed to have a magnetism that could draw a cab his way in under a minute. "Tell me why Harry calls you Jay."

John watched in outrage or admiration – he couldn't quite tell which – as Sherlock nodded bashfully at the cabbie, who patiently held his tongue as Sherlock limped over and gingerly entered the taxi. Sherlock was putting on quite a show, and John, having ultimately decided his true reaction was impatience, shuffled hurriedly in after him and succeeded only in aggravating his bad leg.

Sherlock's hand descended, the warmth of it covering John's thigh and ameliorating the hurt, but his voice stayed crisp. "Tell me."

"It's nothing. It's an old family story." Sherlock looked out the window; John did the same and found it easier to speak then. "She's four years older than me, Harry, and when I was getting old enough for my mum to try to teach me how to read, Harry wanted to help. At least at first. I think she thought it'd be the work of one afternoon." He swallowed a laugh. "Mum had just got me to recognise my name in print, but I took that to mean any word that started with a 'j' and looked about the right length was my name." John thought back to what he'd looked like at that age, moon-faced and stocky and small, and didn't bother holding his laughter in anymore. "Harry got quite a kick out of writing the word 'jerk' and pointing to it, waiting for me to say 'John.'"

"And Harry holds on to memories like that," Sherlock said, sounding like he was piecing together vital clues.

"Yeah," John said, surprised at the lack of commentary on his literacy. "Most older siblings do –" He cut himself off before he could enquire about Mycroft's role in Sherlock's earliest memories. "Anyway, I've been 'Jay' to her ever since. You can borrow the name, if you like."

"Yes," Sherlock said, and climbed out of the taxi. John followed at a reasonable three steps behind, unsure if they were supposed to look like they were together as they entered the university gymnasium. Sherlock flashed some sort of identification at the guard, mumbled something while pointing back at John, and beckoned him to hurry up.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to keep his voice down while he trudged alongside him, "what are we doing here?"

"Nothing sells a story as much as having it be the truth," Sherlock said airily, divesting himself of his sweatshirt. "If we're to approach Milverton after this, claiming that we've come from the gymnasium, it rather behoves us to do so."

Sherlock retrieved a roll of athletic tape from his bag and started to wind the tape, clumsily, around his right hand. John set his cane down, snatched the roll, and moved closer still. "Do you even know how to box?" he asked in a furious whisper, taping Sherlock's right hand up. He tapped the back of Sherlock's hand to indicate he was done with that one and ready for the other.

"Are you asking Sherlock or Jay?" Sherlock queried, lifting his other hand obediently. There were indentations from the violin strings marking the fingertips of his left hand, and John felt an odd pang when he saw them. He quashed it and started taping up that hand.

"I'm asking you."

Sherlock looked at his face at that. "Yes," he promised.

John tore the tape with his teeth, tossed the roll back in Sherlock's bag, and picked the duffel up. They made their way past a few students on rowing machines and treadmills to the heavy hanging bags at the back of the gymnasium. John watched the man in front of him roll his shoulders, crack his neck, and bounce a little on the balls of his feet; whoever this man was, it wasn't Sherlock, who was elegant and cerebral above all else. Escott was direct and physical first and foremost. Insofar as it could be, given his bad leg, his footwork was flawless, and the jabs he threw were precise. The transformation was marvellous, and all the more effective for being so bare-faced; there really was no way to disguise his odd and angular face, his striking Svengali eyes, or even the sheer bloody height of him, so it all had to be done with smaller, more credible shifts.

When John started speaking like he would if he were watching a bout on the telly, Sherlock threw him one startled glance from eyes that seemed wider than usual – Escott's eyes – and nodded docilely. "Right cross," John said, and Escott threw one. Escott took direction like a humble amateur with a legendary coach, and John felt a thrill curling in his belly at the idea that Sherlock, for once, was willing, even eager, to obey. He watched as Escott's shirt darkened steadily with sweat and his skin flushed with colour. John took him through a replay of one of his own matches in basic training, putting Sherlock through his paces.

Paradoxically, it was the smell of his sweat, familiar from the pool and a thousand other sticky situations, that kept John from questioning Escott about anything on Sherlock's mind; it was only basic biology that kept the transformation from being absolute. And Escott would keep going, determined to prove himself in this arena, so when it looked like his bad leg was going from stiff but acceptable to dangerously close to buckling, John caught the bag with steady hands and said, "Hit the showers."

*

Sherlock had a fresh t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms on, and his hair was curling with damp when he led John to the IT building. He pulled John just out of sight of the main entrance and said, "Just watch. You needn't come in, but have some reason ready if you do."

"Do you not want company?" John heard himself ask, voice far too eager.

"Better not, John," Sherlock said lightly. "Milverton is canny, and too much attention might get his hackles up."

"Right," John bit out. He picked a free newspaper out of the rack and settled himself by a window that gave him a clear view of the back of the main room, where the offices were. Sherlock transformed himself into Escott and entered the building, that damn pink mobile in his hand and a bewildered frown creasing his brow. He looked young and earnest in his ratty clothes, a little bit dim, his physical prowess clearly his only chance of livelihood. Where Sherlock had seemed skinny in his thin pyjamas and the swirl of a silk dressing-gown, Escott looked wiry, even lithe, in his thick, well-washed cotton. John saw a man – it had to be Milverton, given the disgust he could feel crawling up his own spine – spot Escott and head over with a predatory smile.

Escott had a hopeful smile on his face when he saw his saviour coming towards him. John could see him shaking his head, self-reproach written across his features as he tried to send a text. Sherlock's curiously, beautifully precise hands seemed to have coarsened and grown clumsy once they became Escott's; he produced a perfect imitation of John's own hunt-and-peck method of typing out messages, complete with the tip of his pink tongue sticking out of his mouth as he concentrated. Milverton laid one comforting hand on Escott's shoulder and Escott's hands opened almost involuntarily, like he wasn't used to gentle touches; Milverton caught the mobile and smiled at the message Escott had been trying to send. Escott ducked his head as a wave of shyness overwhelmed him.

Someone approached the pair of them, kept from getting too close by Escott's large gym bag lying on the ground, but the intruder still managed to block John's view. All he could see were the muscles in Milverton's thick back working as he emphatically shooed away the newcomer. Once the other man finally moved on, he saw that Milverton had one foot casually insinuated between Escott's size-eleven trainers; their two heads were both bent over the pink phone, Escott's the lower, and Milverton's greedy gaze was crawling over the clean lines of Escott's bared neck and strong scapulae.

Right. John was going in. He shook Sherlock's coat out, ridding it of the wrinkles it had acquired from being draped over his arm, binned the free newspaper, and headed for the door. Just as he wrenched it open, however, someone came through; John politely stood aside to let the man pass and looked up to smile at the muttered, "Ta." No. It couldn't be.

But his eye for anatomy could not have deceived him. John recognised the square jaw, the mouth that pulled slightly to one side, and the deep-set eyes. It was the man Harry had been accused of killing, alive and well, wearing expensive-looking tortoiseshell specs, a ring on each pinky finger, and one diamond solitaire in his left earlobe.

All John knew at that point was that he didn't know what the hell was going on.

He stumbled on his way over to Sherlock and had to jam his cane down quickly before he sprawled flat in front of his sister's blackmailer. As he got closer, he could hear Escott's voice, a touch higher than Sherlock's patrician growl. The sound resolved itself – barely – into separate words, the sludgy mumble of swallowed consonants marking Escott as uneducated. John needed to get his hands on Sherlock, reassure himself that there was something solid to hang on to. He stepped forward, the single syllable "Jay" coming out sharper than he'd intended, and draped that long, heavy coat over Escott's shoulders.

"M'trainer, 'e was in the car too," Escott slurred by way of explanation to Milverton, ducking his head down but not enough to hide the sudden blush staining his cheeks. Out of the corner of his eye, John bemusedly watched the colour spread, only realising what had brought it on when he saw Milverton's uncharitable gaze rake over the picture Escott made. Standing there, young and proud, the contrast between his ratty athletic gear and his posh coat was glaringly obvious, as was the easiest explanation for the discrepancy – he looked like a kept man. One who was in the midst of being propositioned, however subtly, by another man, a new potential keeper.

It was too horrifying to contemplate for very long – everything that made Sherlock who he was, irritating and remarkable, reduced to a pretty mouth, a pair of lovely hands, and a perfect arse – but John was unprepared for Milverton's questing eyes to land on him next, small and cynical under raised eyebrows. _No_ , John wanted to shout, but then considered that Sherlock had deliberately fostered the illusion of such a relationship, so he stood straight-backed and unconcerned as Milverton looked between the two of them for confirmation of his theory. John rested a hand on Escott's neck, fingers stretching across it with casual possessiveness, and Escott responded with submissive adoration, shifting so that John's arm didn't have to stretch too high.

Much as he would have liked to get Sherlock out of Milverton's sight, the one thing he couldn't do was to tell Escott to run along like a good lad, since he was flying blind without Sherlock's sharp intelligence watching every last detail. John contented himself with a brisk nod at the filthy blackmailer. "This IT chappie able to sort your mobile, Jay?" he asked, not bothering to disguise his accent or voice; they were unremarkable, after all.

Milverton was apparently unable to resist the opportunity to boast; it was all so much like the mating dances he'd seen on nature specials that John could barely keep from outright laughter. "I'm the head of Systems and Information Technology for the entire university," Milverton corrected. His hands flexed a little, and John considered the man as a physical specimen: powerfully built, running to fat just a little around the waistline, hair thinning but that was only to be expected of a man of his age. "That is my office," he continued, gesturing at the largest window behind them; the rest of the row was made up of smaller offices with people buzzing busily about them.

Escott looked suitably impressed, but John said coolly, like he was waking up to the threat posed by this bastard, "Looks like that bloke thinks he's got the run of _your_ office," just enough doubt in his tone to get Milverton to spin on the spot to see who was invading his domain.

"Ah, no, that's just one of the lads who works for me," Milverton said, so casually it had to be true. As if he could feel their gazes, the boy – nineteen, twenty at most – looked up; his eyes widened as he stared at John, and Escott stepped a bit closer as if sensing an impending confrontation. "Marsh. Good kid," Milverton continued, tone shifting as he realised that Escott wasn't responding to his pose as a man of power but might to his stance as just one of the lads. Escott's lips curved in the smallest of smiles, but the squeeze he gave John's arm meant that it was time to go.

"We've got to be going," John said, digging in his pocket for a fiver; he held it out to Milverton. "Thanks for sorting this one's phone," he said brightly, managing to hold onto his straight face while Milverton sneered at him and spun on his heel.

"John," Escott breathed into his ear, and it gave John a thrill like the sound of a violin played with consummate skill to hear Escott's voice deepen and darken into Sherlock's as the words continued, "I had no idea you were capable of such theatrics." They were back in a cab before he finished, smiling broadly. "Most intriguing."

[   
](http://pics.livejournal.com/innie_darling/pic/0000h7dg/)

*

"We can invite them round," John said, nearly dancing with relief. "Unless you'd rather we all go out?" He looked up from his mobile when he registered the silence in the flat. "What?"

"The case isn't finished," Sherlock said, not quite hesitantly, but with less imperiousness than John was accustomed to hearing.

"And?"

"Our work is not yet done. It might be unwise to assure Harry that she has nothing further to worry about; we still don't know what Milverton wanted from her."

"I'm not leaving her to worry about this for a minute longer than she has to," John said firmly. "Now, shall we have her and Clara over here, or would you rather go out?"

"It makes no difference to me," Sherlock said.

"Then we'll see what they prefer." He texted his sister, then set his mobile on the mantelpiece; Sherlock was pacing rather aimlessly around the flat, so he settled himself in one of the chairs. "How close are we?"

"Milverton uses a rather sprawling network of spies and informants; that is clear from the fact that he did not recognise you, despite your very strong resemblance to one of his latest victims. Meaning he had no personal hand in the messages that were sent to her."

"Did you see –"

"The poor dead immigrant your heart was bleeding over only a few days ago, alive and well and looking significantly more flush? Yes. Walking out of Milverton's office holding a jump drive, actually, which argues that he has, to some extent, been taken into Milverton's confidence, which in turn argues that this scam of the faked hit-and-run death is one that they have worked before. I'd be interested to know what percentage of their victims have actually committed crimes, and how many have paid out for crimes that they never committed."

"So –"

"Milverton might have lieutenants, but he is the one with the names and profits. He would have to keep his information secure but accessible."

John groaned. "Not in this day and age. Digital information can't be killed."

"But as we saw this afternoon, Milverton does not like to share," Sherlock said, crisply, as if he hadn't been the merchandise being fought over. "He's canny enough to protect his information base and only dole out bits to his people as they're needed."

"So where is he keeping everything?" John asked.

"Passport drive. Portable, password-protected, and given the innovations in technology, more than adequate capacity for storing all the information he's accumulated. He's like a spider sitting secure in the middle of his web, or at least he thinks he is."

"Do you have any idea how difficult it's going to be to locate and identify one passport drive in that office of his? It's floor-to-ceiling gadgets and hardware! And that's not even considering his home or a safety deposit box or any other place he might have dreamt up."

"He'd never leave it at his home, not since a former girlfriend of his, an Eva Blackwell, took a golf club to all his computer equipment and then tossed it into a full bath. Milverton passed it off as a lovers' spat to the papers but made sure she got jail time for destruction of private property and attempted murder. Not a man to cross."

"How was it attempted murder?" John asked, honestly bewildered. "You mean – oh. Electrical equipment and water. Do you think he had a file on her?"

"Doubtless. And he'd never leave the drive in his office. Not enough security, too many people – informants, mostly – with unquestioned access to it."

"Safety deposit box, then?"

Sherlock grinned indulgently, an expression so alien on his face that John had to shake his head to register it properly. "We will not be wearing masks and breaking into any hallowed institution to recover the information. He needs it to be accessible, remember? He keeps the drive upon his person. Why else would I have let him get so close to me, if not to verify that theory?"

John's long moment of speechlessness was broken by the new-text chime of his phone. "Change back into your Sherlock clothes," he said; "we're going round to Harry and Clara's."

*

Sherlock was staring at the wall of bouquets with a gleam in his eye that meant he was categorising them according to their toxicity, so in the interests of not alarming yet another florist within walking distance of their flat, John took him by the elbow and steered him toward the till, where his choice was being wrapped in paper and ribbons.

"Why yellow roses?" Sherlock asked, rubbing a fallen petal between his fingers.

John eyed the blossoms, glowing like bundles of sunshine no bigger than a baby's fists and felt unaccountably happier. "They're Clara's favourite."

"And we're not bringing wine, though that is the standard practice when one is a dinner guest," Sherlock concluded.

"Right," John said, refusing to take offence, as Sherlock seemed to be testing out a theory rather than baiting him about Harry's habits. "Now come on, or we'll be late."

The cab ride over was quicker than he'd expected, given traffic patterns in the city, and they were actually standing on Clara's doorstep a few minutes early.

Clara opened the door and caught him in her arms immediately; John relaxed, the restfulness of not having to be sharp or alert or playing some part washing over him. He smiled through the three quick kisses to his cheek. Behind him, he could hear Sherlock shift from foot to foot, the paper around the flowers crinkling between his hands.

"Sherlock," Clara greeted, stepping forward to hug him, and Sherlock, John was surprised to see, accepted it, reciprocating only as far as patting her on the back the way an inexperienced babysitter would burp a baby. Even as he shook his head at Sherlock's oddness, John had to admit that the two of them looked stunning together, all beautiful bones and striking eyes; it was hardly fair that they both had brains to match those looks as well.

"These are for you," Sherlock said, disengaging himself as quickly as he could and thrusting the bouquet toward Clara. "Your favourites."

"No wonder this one's so impressed with your brains," Clara said, her sudden dimple flashing out as she shared a secret smile with John. He laughed and pulled Sherlock into the house behind him.

He nearly ran smack into Harry as he walked into the kitchen. "Jay!" she said, then moved to step out of his way. He hugged her before she could get too far.

"We've got him," he whispered into her hair, and she sagged in relief, all her weight resting on him for a moment.

"I want to hear every last detail," she said, a trembling little laugh escaping her lips.

"Sherlock will want to tell you every clever move he made," he assured her.

"It's a learning experience for those who cannot watch me in action," Sherlock said from behind them, and they both jumped a little.

"Come here, genius," Harry said, taking his face in her hands and getting up on tiptoe to smack a resounding kiss upon his cheek.

John laughed at the look on Sherlock's face, then fetched a vase from the kitchen cupboard to the right of the sink, just where they'd always been.

Clara came in as he was filling it with water, armed with scissors and the bouquet, and set to work cutting the stems at the correct angle; John didn't move away, enjoying the feeling of being shoulder-to-shoulder with her again. He glanced sidelong at her, shot her a smile, and then looked round for Sherlock, who was standing next to Harry and looking back at him.

*

Sherlock was quieter than usual while Harry and Clara got the hors d'oeuvres set out in the dining room, and John followed his gaze to the grand piano, its sleek blackness making the creamy brightness of the roses all the more vivid. "Clara plays," John told him in an undertone.

Sherlock didn't bother to regulate the volume of his voice. "Obviously, given her knuckles." His eyes stayed fixed on the piano. "That's a beautiful instrument." There were photographs arranged on its lid, in front of the vase of roses; John saw one of himself in uniform, another of the three of them taken by his girlfriend at the time, and several of Harry and Clara together.

"It is; Clara's always kept a lovely home. Come on, it’s time to eat."

*

"You actually ran into the man who I'm supposed to have killed?" Harry asked, voice rising sharply. "You're sure it was him?"

"There is no part of the body which varies so much as the human ear. Each ear is as a rule quite distinctive and differs from all other ones. Even in the photograph that was sent to you, the man's right ear was distinct – short pinna, broad curve of the upper lobe, and an unusual convolution of the inner cartilage. It had to be the same man we saw." Sherlock's voice brooked no dissent; John was only surprised that it had taken him so long to participate in the conversation and that he'd actually eaten at least a quarter of what had been served him.

Of course, now that he had started, he seemed bound and determined to keep going, ignoring Harry's sigh of relief and the rather fervent kiss she planted on Clara. "Yes, yes, we know Milverton's a fraud. What we don't know is what he wanted from you, or how he got your name."

"Harry's got access to rather astronomical sums of money, through her job," Clara said, taking Harry's hand comfortingly. "But I was wondering if it might have to do with one of the cases I'm handling, if this . . . Milverton was seeking to obtain some kind of leverage."

Sherlock evidently liked Clara, given that he actually answered her, paying her the courtesy of taking her seriously. "No. Given what we know about the size of his organisation and the man's own personality, he wouldn't be so oblique. He comes at his victims head-on, not sideways."

"So he meant to hit me, then. Like Clara said, I have access to all of the account numbers for the investors in our funds, though there have been some new laws passed recently to tighten controls."

"Maybe he was trying to catch you before the new laws took effect?" John ventured. "Are you having to do a lot of work to get new procedures in place for them?"

"Yeah," Harry said, as Clara stood to clear the plates. "That's why I couldn't get five minutes with you the day you came by."

John collected Sherlock's plate and handed it and his own to Clara. "I meant to ask you – there was a chap at your office who recognised me, called me 'the soldier' – did you tell your colleagues I was in Afghanistan?"

"Didn't you know, John?" Clara asked, returning with a sugar bowl and a tiny jug of milk. "Harry bragged to _everyone_ about you while you were gone; she'd stop strangers in shops, the people at the next table at restaurants. Made you sound like Superman. I forgot you were just a wee one, not ten feet tall."

John shot a look at his sister, who had her eyes locked firmly on her own hands. He hadn't known, had judged her from the lack of letters, the fact that only Clara's signature showed up on the cards tucked into his care packages; he'd forgotten that he was her only family too, and that they'd never been good at communicating, just the two of them. They had both been lucky that she'd found Clara, who never minded acting as translator and go-between. He put his hand over Harry's and squeezed.

"John." That was Sherlock's voice, perhaps a little less portentous than usual, though John dismissed the notion that Clara's confession had thawed Sherlock out insofar as Harry was concerned; that kiss in the kitchen was likely to count against her just as much as her nickname for him did. "Did you not observe that the boy who came out of Milverton's office this afternoon seemed to recognise you as well?"

"Yes, that's right," he said, recalling the widened eyes and the instinctive hunch of the shoulders he'd seen. "Marsh, Milverton called him."

"Donny Marsh?" Harry asked, sitting forward to try to puzzle it out. "Twenty, straight blond hair, about Sherlock's height?"

John nodded. No doubt Sherlock could detail Marsh's features – ears especially – down to the last cell, but that was enough to be going on with.

"He interned with us for a few months. Christ, some of us even took him out for drinks on his birthday."

"What happened?" John asked.

"He had some sort of family problems, meant he couldn't keep both school and the job along with whatever he had to take care of at home, so he left." Before Sherlock could prompt her, she pieced it together herself. "That's how they knew I had a new phone; I'd given the new number out at the office."

For once, Sherlock kept his mouth shut, not mentioning that surely being colleagues also meant that Marsh knew exactly what Harry's relationship with alcohol was, and that she would be ripe for the picking if she could be convinced that she'd done something terrible while intoxicated. John smiled at him, and Sherlock stared back, unflinching and cool.

When he did open his mouth, it was only to fill in a small detail that had been niggling at John's brain. "I told Milverton the pink mobile was my sister's, that I'd lost mine in the car accident that had injured the two of us." He paused, to see if John was following his train of thought. "I had to see if he would react to the idea of a sister lending her brother a phone, to know if he had in fact recognised you but managed to mask it somehow."

"He hadn't eyes for me once he saw you," John said, which was only part of the truth, but saying so allowed him to launch into the tale of how Sherlock had cracked the case while they all sipped Clara's good coffee.

*

"Once we get the passport drive, are we turning it over to Lestrade straightaway?" John asked, hanging his jacket on the peg next to Sherlock's coat. Milverton had nothing real on Harry, so he could stop worrying that she'd be hauled away in handcuffs. "Or –"

"Extrapolating from Harry's case and what we know of Milverton personally, it's almost certain that there is no evidence of real criminal wrongdoing on the drive; it should be safe to pass it to Lestrade. It might even give him a boost on some open cases." Sherlock straightened his cuffs, rucked up by his coat, even as he was heading into his bedroom, presumably to change into his pyjamas. "I must admit, I will derive great satisfaction from seeing Milverton pay for all of his bullying."

"And the rest of his team?" John asked as he tidied the living room, sorting scattered papers into neat stacks and rearranging throw pillows.

"If Milverton kept files on his lovers – remember Eva's determination to destroy the equipment – then he must have done the same for every member of his organisation. We'll have them all. Marsh included."

John straightened at that, not bothering to disguise his satisfaction. It called for more compassion than he was capable of to protest that Marsh was only a kid, a kid with problems at home. For what he'd done to Harry, the bastard had to pay.

Through the open door, he could hear the soft shushing sounds of fabric as Sherlock changed, and having observed Sherlock eyeing Clara's piano, bet himself that Sherlock would be carrying his violin when he returned to the living room. John refolded the blanket that lay across the arm of the sofa and headed upstairs.

He came back down in his pyjamas to find Sherlock plucking pensively at taut violin strings. "How are we going to get the drive?" John asked; all he could think of was Sherlock – Escott – seducing Milverton for access to his trouser pockets, but he knew Sherlock would have at least three marvellous schemes better than that.

"It was rather restful to be Escott," Sherlock said, the plucking resolving itself into a melancholy melody; "I shouldn't like to sacrifice him so quickly."

"So he can't know it's you, then?" John asked, no small amount of relief flooding through him at the thought that Milverton was going to get no second chance with his friend.

"Correct. He's careful not to allow himself to be trapped in crowded areas, so we will have to engineer a crowd around him." Sherlock's long fingers were moving more quickly now, the melody becoming more frantic. "I think, John, if you could pull the fire alarm for the building, I could pick Milverton's pocket in the ensuing bustle."

"That's too close," John objected.

"He won't recognise me," Sherlock declared. "It won't be Escott who gets within inches of him."

"Maybe not with his eyes, but he'll know your scent." Sherlock and Escott had smelled the same, since Sherlock routinely used only unscented soap and deodorant and no cologne or aftershave; the scent of Escott's skin when Milverton had pressed against him had been particularly clear, since he'd been fresh from the shower. Milverton's every sense would have been working overtime to catalogue everything about the man in front of him, and scent held the strongest ties to memory. "Trust me, Sherlock," he said, knowing the man would otherwise dismiss the notion, having no experience with the tricks lust could play, "you need to wear some kind of scent."

The last note Sherlock had struck, one fingernail snapping decisively against a string, echoed in the air and finally Sherlock said, "Not your aftershave, though. You were wearing it that day, so he'd recognise that just as quickly. I could borrow some of the ghastly stuff Mycroft uses; I know the perfumier he employs to make it."

"Or you could go round to the shop in the morning and buy a bottle of the cheapest stuff you can find," John said.

"That would work too," Sherlock said with a perfectly straight face and dancing eyes. John wondered where the irritability that usually accompanied cracking a case was; it was as if Sherlock was not anticipating the onset of debilitating boredom once Milverton's pocket was picked. Curious. "Sleep well, John."

*

John sat in one of the club chairs in the living room, his back to the kitchen, determined to ignore the malodorous experiment Sherlock had spread all over the kitchen table. The man didn't even have the decency to monitor it closely, just set it up and let it stink up the entire flat while he lay on his stomach on the sofa and pored over an organic chemistry text with a rapt expression on his face. John sighed and returned to his novel.

The trill of John's mobile broke the silence. Lestrade was calling; John slid a bookmark into place and picked up the phone. "Hello."

"This Milverton's a real beauty," Lestrade said. "Had his fat fingers in as many pies as he could manage."

"Gone for good, then?"

"He won't be troubling decent folks for quite some time," Lestrade agreed. "Got a question for the nutter – can you put it on speaker? I know he won't pick up his own phone, the lazy git."

One of the many qualities John appreciated in the detective inspector was his candour. "Go ahead," he said, pressing the button.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, voice a little tinny on the speaker, "what possessed you to substitute one of my warrant cards for this bloody passport drive?"

Sherlock was wearing a smug smile that was rapidly reaching Cheshire Cat proportions. "Even in that crowd, Milverton would have felt the absence in his pocket rather quickly. The card was the right size, if a bit lighter than the drive." He sighed theatrically. "Was that really what you wanted to ask me? Why can't you just try to think?"

"No, that's not my only question," Lestrade said, apparently taking no offence. "Vee asked me to ask you round for dinner tomorrow night, now that you apparently eat on a semi-regular basis. Said she wanted to meet you properly. You're invited too, John, obviously."

John looked over at Sherlock, who was managing to both shake his head emphatically _no_ and scowl at him; he knew Sherlock's eating habits had improved only because of his own determined campaign to make them better. It was ridiculously easy to work out that John was happier when Sherlock was healthier, so while Sherlock got no points for the deduction, he did earn them for following the logic through to its natural conclusion.

"We'd love to," John said, and Sherlock's scowl increased in intensity until John was sure he felt heat as if from a laser on the side of his face. "Vee's a fantastic cook. Can we bring anything?"

"She said not to bring wine, but you could bring a plant if you can't show up empty-handed. And Sherlock, I'm telling _you_ you're to bring your manners."

Sherlock made a face at the phone, and John laughed and disconnected the call.

*

John pulled a photograph from the box under his bed. It was curling at the edges, a little faded, but Clara and Harry, cheek to cheek and beaming out at him, still shone through bright and beautiful. He sat on his bed, letting the afternoon light wash over him as he looked down at the snap that had got him through his tour of duty.

His mobile beeped its text-message alert. _Tea, please. SH_

He hooked his cane over his arm and took the stairs slowly. One of these days, soon, he was going to run up and down these blasted steps just because he could.

He set the photograph on the mantelpiece, made a mental note to get a frame for it when he went to the shop to buy Vee a little flowering plant, and headed to the kitchen to make tea.


End file.
